


In Conclusion

by Ladybug_21



Series: Compartments [6]
Category: Broadchurch
Genre: F/F, Gen, Love in the Time of Corona
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-06-10
Updated: 2020-06-10
Packaged: 2021-03-04 06:34:22
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 3
Words: 5,800
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24629377
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Ladybug_21/pseuds/Ladybug_21
Summary: Just a few more vignettes wrapping up a bunch of plot points and reader prompts from myCompartmentsseries, about theBroadchurchbarristers and various facets of their lives. (As a warning, the latter two vignettes are based heavily on original characters from other parts of this series; only the first revolves exclusively around characters canon to the TV show.)
Relationships: Jocelyn Knight/Maggie Radcliffe, Sharon Bishop & Jocelyn Knight
Series: Compartments [6]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1660780
Comments: 17
Kudos: 70





	1. Jonah

**Author's Note:**

> Boatloads of thanks, as always, to all of the readers whose prompts and questions inspired this entire series. A special shout-out to Tine34, BEE, and Night_Owl for the exact prompts that led to the below. And apologies that I wasn't able to cover every idea thrown my way... I know that there's fic out there that touches on some of the more canon-related prompts that were suggested, so I decided to focus on wrapping things up for just the characters that I invented or fleshed out in ways very particular to this [series](https://archiveofourown.org/series/1660780) overall.
> 
> As always, I own no rights to _Broadchurch_.

The bruises on Jonah's face were still as pronounced as ever, but the swelling had gone down a bit. He still moved gingerly, determined not to wince in pain as he hit any part of his body that was still raw, and _especially_ determined not to do anything that would make his mum worry any more than he knew she already was worrying. Jonah knew that any emotions she might be feeling over her recent victory in court—joy, smugness, relief—would be dampened by his current condition, and he choked down a fresh wave of guilt for everything that had happened.

But when the guards led him into the visitors area, Jonah stopped involuntarily, staring. Seated next to his mum at the table was a face he hadn't seen in well over a decade.

"Jonah," breathed Sharon, standing as he approached, her eyes widening (the bruises had turned strange colours since she had last seen his injuries, and Jonah knew he somehow looked even worse than before).

"Mum," mumbled Jonah, embarrassed, "I'm fine, I promise."

Sharon looked anything but convinced, but she nodded and sat back down, her entire body tense as she watched Jonah carefully settle into his own chair.

"You remember Ms Knight?" she added.

To anyone else listening, Sharon's tone would have sounded completely normal, but Jonah recognised how her voice was slightly strangled, just avoided letting in the wobble that would betray how rattled she truly was. Jonah hated seeing his mum so distraught, so he turned his attention instead to the woman seated next to her.

"Of course," he said.

Because how could Jonah forget Jocelyn Knight? Jocelyn Knight had been a constant presence in his childhood—phoning his mum at all early hours of weekend mornings, or sparking muttered grievances when Sharon suddenly remembered a pending deadline while standing in the middle of an aisle at Sainsbury's, or igniting heated rants at his Auntie Theresa long after Sharon thought that Jonah had fallen asleep (his mother's capacity for rage had always terrified and fascinated Jonah as a child, because it was a side that she tried her best to hide from him). Even long after his mum had stopped working for Jocelyn Knight, the older barrister had cast a long shadow over Sharon Bishop's career; every professional move his mum made seemed to be informed by what Jocelyn Knight would say or do. And although Sharon took Jonah to church when he was small, it had always seemed to Jonah that Jocelyn Knight was the true deity whose good will (or at least strong reaction) his mum strove to earn. Despite the fact that Jonah was now in his twenties and understood that even the giants of his youth were only human, the fact that Jocelyn Knight was now here—in this prison, to visit _him_ —still felt as surreal as if his mum had shown up with an archangel at her side.

"It's good to see you again, Jonah," said Jocelyn.

Unlike Sharon, nothing in Jocelyn's manner betrayed any hint of alarm that she felt at seeing Jonah's battered face. And yet Jonah could detect a subtle warmth beneath the formality of her words. In his mind, Jocelyn had always been ancient, as anyone over the age of twenty inevitably seems to a five year old. As a result, Jonah somehow felt that Jocelyn hadn't aged at all, that time had simply frozen for her, or perhaps that she had stepped out of some stained-glass window in which she had been preserved these past eighteen years. Her voice sounded precisely as he remembered it—deep and resonant with restrained emotion, like the lower range of a violin, and very unlike his mother's wonderful brassier voice that displayed all of her feelings shimmering on the surface.

Quite unexpectedly, Jonah recalled Jocelyn's distinctive voice reading to him. He could vaguely recall his mum being on some interminable phone call on a weekend in chambers; and when Jonah had wandered into Jocelyn's office, bored to tears, she had sat him down at her table, pulled another chair over next to him (for Jocelyn was not the type to seat even small children she liked on her lap), and taken ten minutes to read all the way through one of his _Paddington Bear_ books with Jonah, before sending him back to his mum with a small smile.

"Jocelyn's found a procedural mechanism to reopen your case on appeal," Sharon explained.

"I don't want to get your hopes up too prematurely," Jocelyn began, but Sharon cut her off.

"And it's a winning argument," she insisted. When Jocelyn turned towards her, scowling, Sharon shot her a glance. "I've looked it over, and I can't see any flaws, and I count myself a pretty damn good barrister. And we won't hold any information back from you, Jocelyn. I promise we'll tell you whatever you need to know."

Jocelyn hesitated, then nodded. Just then, Sharon's mobile rang.

"Shit," she muttered, shoving it to her ear aggressively. "Abby, I'll call you... what?! Excuse me, just a moment," she added to Jonah and Jocelyn, before shoving her chair backwards with a sigh of irritation and storming towards the corner of the visitors area.

Jocelyn glanced back at Jonah and opened her mouth to say something, but he gently cut her off, as well.

"I know you can't guarantee a win," he said quietly. "But if my mum believes in you, then I do, too."

Jocelyn looked down at her hands, clasped on top of the table, and nodded.

"I owe you an apology, Jonah," she said very softly. "For not being there when your case first went to trial."

Jonah blinked. He never considered that a towering figure like Jocelyn Knight would ever have reason to take a case like his. Her cases were the things of legend. Why would she take a brief for some reckless university kid who had gotten into a drunken brawl at a pub and accidentally committed a manslaughter that still haunted his dreams?

"That's all right," he said stupidly. "I mean, you had more important things on your plate, I'm sure."

Jocelyn closed her eyes and breathed in deeply.

"Nothing should have been more important than this," she said. "You mattered then, Jonah, and I'm ashamed that I wasn't willing to prove it to you at the time, when your mother asked. It would be far too easy to say that I was dealing with some health problems..."

"Oh, god." Jonah's eyes had gone wide. Jocelyn Knight, being eternal, was not supposed to age and fall ill like this; dealing with the cognitive dissonance of her mortality was definitely not something that Jonah had woken up this morning expecting to work through. "Are you better, I hope?"

"Not really." Jocelyn's mouth twisted into a wry smile, her eyes still cast downwards. "But it's just something I'll have to learn to live with. It never should have stopped me from helping you when you needed help, at any rate."

"But you're here now," Jonah pointed out.

"Yes." Jocelyn finally raised her gaze to Jonah's. "And I promise to fight for you with everything I've got, Jonah. You have my word on that."

"Jocelyn." Sharon had reappeared at the table, glaring daggers. "We have to go. I'm so sorry, Jonah," she added to her son. "Post-trial emergency back in Broadchurch with the shittiest timing imaginable, but I'll be back as soon as possible, okay?"

"What's happened?" Jocelyn muttered.

"Oh, so no one told you in advance, really?" Sharon scoffed back at Jocelyn as she stood and moved around the table to hug Jonah goodbye. Jonah appreciated that, even when his mum was so irate, she still remembered to be very, very gentle as she wrapped her arms around his bruised torso. "Love you lots. Take care."

"Bye, Mum," Jonah said, and over Sharon's shoulder, he exchanged a nod with Jocelyn Knight.

He watched as his mum and Jocelyn made their way out, still arguing with each other in low voices ("What do you mean, he's gone?" "Oh, _please_ , it sounds like half the town was probably involved, don't tell me that Maggie didn't let anything slip to you?" "Well, he's not your client anymore, it's not your job to worry about what's happened to him, so long as he's not been harmed in any way..." "You're seriously going to pretend that this isn't harassment?!" "That's for the police to decide, not us." "Like the police will be impartial, with Ellie Miller involved!"). And, for the first time in a long while, Jonah felt a small bubble of hope swell inside his chest. Jocelyn Knight was obviously just a person, and one who couldn't win every case; this recent trial was proof enough of that. But watching the pair of them—the imposing demi-goddess of his youthful imagination, and his incredible mum, who had somehow beat her idol at her own legal chess game—Jonah dared to believe that, after years of despair, he finally had a fighting chance again.


	2. Madeleine

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Based on the flashback events of the [second chapter](https://archiveofourown.org/works/23598376/chapters/56652733#workskin) of _Snapshots_ and, to a lesser extent, a scene from the [second chapter](https://archiveofourown.org/works/21894667/chapters/52259515#workskin) of _ab initio_ about Jocelyn and Maggie letting the moment pass in 1998. Also refers to characters from [_Iron_](https://archiveofourown.org/works/23085991), the other two chapters of _Snapshots_ , and the first chapter of _ab initio_ —but the story still makes sense without understanding those references in full depth.

Maggie was so accustomed to living in Dorset by now that she always contemplated a visit to London with the wide-eyed enthusiasm of a child departing on holiday, and that sheer excitement made Jocelyn laugh with delight. By contrast, the barrister felt that it wouldn't matter how many years she spent living in Broadchurch; arriving back in London would always feel to Jocelyn like coming home. She had explained this to Maggie once, and Maggie had nodded and simply said, "As long as Broadchurch will always feel like home, too, I certainly can't complain," and Jocelyn had kissed her and reassured Maggie that she didn't need to worry at all, on that count.

The only strange thing about coming home to London was that London kept changing in Jocelyn's absence. The faces that once had made up her daily life in the capital were gradually disappearing. Fred, her old friend and mentor from Gray's Inn, had died quietly in his sleep in his mid-nineties, the year after Jocelyn had fled back to Broadchurch; she hadn't even made it over to London for his funeral, her grief was so sharp and her fear of confronting her abandoned career so strong. Even if Fred's reactionary stances on LGBTQ+ rights hadn't changed much since the heyday of Thatcher, Jocelyn still wished that she had had the chance to introduce him to Maggie ( _her_ Maggie, Jocelyn thought with pride). Fred and her Maggie would have got on very well, and maybe, just _maybe,_ Fred's views would have shifted just a little at seeing how happy Jocelyn was. By contrast, her old friend Reginald Chesterfield was still alive, thankfully, but he had retired from teaching law at UCL and moved out of London. Jocelyn felt that she owed him a visit at some point, even if that meant driving all the way to some tiny village in Cornwall. After all, Reg Chesterfield had changed Jocelyn's life in more ways than she could count. It was he who had introduced Jocelyn to her dear friend Raj, while Raj was lecturing in Sociology at UCL on the Asian diaspora; and without meeting Raj, Jocelyn would never have worked on the Whitechapel case; and without the Whitechapel case, Professor Chesterfield (in his academic capacity) would never have sent his student Sharon Bishop to meet Jocelyn. Funny, Jocelyn mused, to look back at all of the little intersections in her life, and how they all built on one another to form a pattern that was so clear in retrospect, even if it had been inscrutable at each juncture.

And so Jocelyn spent most of her time in London these days working, not visiting with old friends. She had asked Maggie not to join her for all of the hearings surrounding Jonah Bishop's appeal. For some reason, Jocelyn felt that that failure needed to be kept separate from Maggie, that she needed to redeem herself by winning Jonah's case before she could let Maggie watch her in court again. "You don't need to prove anything to me, petal," Maggie had insisted, but she had respected Jocelyn's need for a little space on this particular issue. Now, Jonah was a free man once more—Jocelyn would never forget the way he and Sharon had clung to each other upon his release, as if they had both just survived some horrific act of God together. And, since Jocelyn had moved on to a different case (violent assault of a Nigerian-born man, charged as a hate crime), she was willing to let Maggie join her for a weekend in the city.

"Bloody train's delayed," Maggie sighed over the phone on Friday afternoon. "Don't try to come and meet me; I can find my own way from Waterloo."

"Are you sure?" Jocelyn didn't know why, but she felt a bit cheated that she wasn't going to be able to greet Maggie straight off the train—a small sign of affection and solidarity, now that the two of them would be back in London together for the first time since Maggie's wonderful, ill-fated visit, all those years ago.

"Course I'm sure," Maggie replied briskly. "Go, get ready, good luck! I'll see you after."

Jocelyn made her way to the Old Bailey alone, smiling slightly at how the imposing old courthouse greeted her like an old friend, even after all this time. Perhaps the security at the door were unfamiliar, but everything else was just how Jocelyn had left it. And the faces she did recognise all stopped and greeted her, told her how good it was to see her back again. Yes, this was home, just as surely as her beautiful house on the cliffs of Broadchurch was home. Jocelyn closed her failing eyes for a moment and breathed in, feeling a peace settle within her, the same way her mother had always approached entering a church.

And that peace stayed with her, even as she strode into the courtroom and into the heat of a legal battle. Evidence, witness testimony, cross-examination—even with her heart racing with adrenaline, Jocelyn felt so incredibly _grounded_ in the midst of this adversarialism, so certain of who she was and what she was doing. The only time she ever felt this alive outside of court was with Maggie, and even then, it was a very different type of being alive. Jocelyn needed both to survive, the way a flower needs both sunlight and water. Gone were her uncertainties from the Joe Miller trial's conclusion, gone were her concerns that helping to acquit Jonah Bishop was more of an act of redemption than of reanimation. _This_ was where Jocelyn Knight QC belonged, and she'd be damned if she let something as inconsequential as her vision ever scare her away from it again.

It was in the midst of contemplating such resolutions that Jocelyn walked out of the courtroom antechamber and straight into the very _last_ person she wanted to see in London.

"Well, well," said Madeleine Beaumont, her smile almost predatory. "The great Jocelyn Knight, finally back in the Old Bailey."

Jocelyn realised that her hands had instinctively balled into fists, and she willed them to relax infinitesimally. Madeleine, she was quite sorry to see, was still just as heart-wrenchingly beautiful as she had been the last time Jocelyn had come face-to-face with her, some thirty years before. The other barrister's face was now delicately wrinkled, and generous streaks of elegant silver flowed through her hair. But her sapphire eyes were as enigmatically piercing as they had always been, and she still held herself with the poise of a queen. Jocelyn's stomach clenched when she noticed that Madeleine even sported the same shade of red lipstick that she had worn during their last encounter.

"I have nothing to say to you," Jocelyn hissed.

"Hmm." Madeleine leaned forward slightly into Jocelyn's space, clearly enjoying the power she still held over her old rival. Jocelyn remembered reading something in the late-1990s about how Madeleine's viscount husband had left her for a far younger film starlet; about how, after a protracted legal battle, Madeleine had won a formal separation and half the family fortune, and then carried on a scandalous affair of her own with a popular boy-band singer only slightly older than her own university-age children. For all the blows that life had dealt Madeleine Beaumont, the woman still clearly knew how to leverage her sensuality when she wanted to. "What a pity. The last time we saw each other, we parted on such dreadful terms. I was hoping we might be able to make amends."

"Were you." Jocelyn took a step backwards and found herself up against the wall of the corridor, Madeleine still advancing towards her like a snake slowly unwinding around its prey. "The last time we saw each other, I told you very clearly to go to hell, and I suppose it was too much to hope that you'd actually listen."

"Oh, Jocelyn." It truly was maddening, how what would have simply been a soft sigh from anyone else had to draw all of Jocelyn's attention to Madeleine's parted lips and to the rise and fall of her breast. "Just as prickly and cold as always. Really, after all this time, I'd hoped that maybe you'd learned to relax a little and enjoy the good things in life."

" _Good things?!_ " spat Jocelyn, wondering how on earth Madeleine had the gall to call whatever had happened between them a 'good thing'. But, oh, as much as Jocelyn still wanted Madeleine Beaumont to suffer as much as Jocelyn had suffered and more, Jocelyn was only human, and her hatred could only keep blazing for so long; and Madeleine was still so breathtaking, and her body was so close to Jocelyn's...

"Jocelyn?"

And suddenly, whatever trance Madeleine had been trying to cast over Jocelyn was broken. The QC looked up, and there was Maggie— _her_ Maggie—arms crossed, staring in bewilderment at this stunning woman who practically had Jocelyn pressed against a wall, despite the look of clear disgust on Jocelyn's face. Relief suddenly flooded Jocelyn's entire being, and she pushed her way past Madeleine Beaumont and seized Maggie's hand.

"Thank god you're here," she whispered as she practically pulled Maggie away from Madeleine's bemused call of, "Well, thank you for introducing us!"

Outside, in the open air, Jocelyn finally was able to exhale a long sigh of relief. Maggie looked at her, concerned.

"Who the hell _was_ that?!" she asked.

"No one," Jocelyn replied.

"Jocelyn..."

"She is _nothing_ ," Jocelyn insisted.

The uncharacteristic fury in the barrister's voice made Maggie flinch. Clearly still unsure of where Jocelyn's boundaries were in London, she tentatively reached out a hand and placed it on Jocelyn's arm; and Jocelyn rushed into Maggie's embrace in one swift motion, burying her face in the journalist's shoulder. Here, in Maggie's arms, Jocelyn was home—just as much as in the courtrooms of the Old Bailey, just as much as at her house ( _their_ house) on the windswept cliffs in Broadchurch.

"Do you want to talk about it?" Maggie asked softly.

Jocelyn shook her head, and so Maggie simply rubbed her back, discreetly kissed the side of Jocelyn's head.

"That was one hell of an argument, by the way," she added after a moment. "I only missed the first few minutes, miraculously. I'm really glad you're back here, petal, doing what you love. As much as I miss you back home when you're gone, I wouldn't be so selfish as to deprive the world of your brilliance."

Jocelyn smiled into Maggie's shoulder, then finally pulled away slightly. They were standing almost exactly where Jocelyn had come so close to kissing Maggie, all those years ago, the last time Maggie had seen Jocelyn argue a case at the Old Bailey. The street itself had hardly changed at all, even if they were both older and wiser. Over Maggie's shoulder, Jocelyn saw Madeleine emerge, alone, from the doors of the courthouse; she spotted Jocelyn and Maggie and watched them expressionlessly.

"How much do you love me?" Jocelyn asked on impulse.

"More than you can imagine," her Maggie answered earnestly. "More than enough."

Jocelyn smoothed back a strand of hair that the breeze had whipped across the journalist's face. And then, smiling like her heart would burst with emotions, Jocelyn Knight kissed Maggie Radcliffe in front of the Old Bailey, for any other lawyer or judge passing by in London to see.


	3. Louise

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Set immediately after [_Compartments_](https://archiveofourown.org/works/23174665) in the current COVID-19 pandemic era, and based around a character from [_The Better Part of Valour_](https://archiveofourown.org/works/22489495).

Maggie had promised Jocelyn that she wouldn't let her out of her sight, once Sharon Bishop had brought Jocelyn back to Broadchurch from COVID-filled London. And while the journalist had meant this figuratively, she found herself being more literal about it than she ever would have imagined. It wasn't that she actively feared that the barrister was going to disappear on her, but having felt so strongly that she _could_ have lost Jocelyn when she was at her most ill, Maggie couldn't help but walk past the door of Jocelyn's home office more often than necessary, just to be sure that Jocelyn was being her normal self—namely, buried up to her ears in work and utterly unapologetic about it.

In all honesty, Jocelyn operated perfectly well in the pandemic world. Being naturally introverted, and spared the bother of travel to and from London by the sudden ubiquity of court conference calls, the QC seemed to be thriving professionally. Maggie knew, of course, that Jocelyn was just as existentially anxious as any of them were. But she wasn't suffering quite as acutely as Maggie, who loved to be at the centre of everything, hearing about everyone's business, chatting with as many people as she possibly could about the goings-on around Broadchurch. Lovely as it was to run into friends while on strolls along the cliffs, it just wasn't the same to shout happily back and forth from a safe distance of two metres; Maggie lived for the sort of gossip that was whispered from ear to ear. For Jocelyn, the coronavirus meant that she simply went about her business as usual with less movement from place to place. For Maggie, it meant a total collapse of the way that she normally operated.

"As if it weren't bad enough that the local news industry was already dying an ignoble death," she'd grumble on any given evening, and Jocelyn would sympathetically refill Maggie's wine glass and suggest that she drop in on the Zoom town hall being held on Tuesday, or whatever newsworthy events were occurring via videoconference.

Maggie began watching the news obsessively, as if she could fill the void in her own reporting existence vicariously. And so it was that the television was on one morning, as Jocelyn brought in scones from the kitchen and placed a plate in front of Maggie.

"Jesus Christ," Maggie breathed at the news, ignoring her breakfast.

Jocelyn glanced at the screen. Tear gas canisters, police in riot gear wielding batons, people running, people shouting, camera footage shaking...

"Where is this?" she asked. It looked like a war zone.

"Just outside the White House," Maggie replied, unable to tear her gaze away from the coverage. "Clearing away protestors, so That Idiot could walk across the square and take a photo outside a church." She shook her head. "You'd think I'd be used to this, by now, after the footage out of Ferguson and all, but still... it's like things haven't changed at all in the past fifty years, isn't it?"

Normally, Jocelyn would reply, but her attention had been caught by an interview that a Washington-based BBC reporter was now conducting with an older woman, who had pulled her mask down to speak into the microphone that a reporter was holding on an extension from a safe distance away.

"Am I concerned that so many people are out here, given the risks imposed by the pandemic?" said the woman, whom the caption identified as the former Dean of Howard University's College of Arts and Sciences. "Yeah, of course I'm concerned. But here's the thing that I'd like to impress upon any listeners: We're not endangering ourselves any more by marching out here today, than we would be by sitting at home, doing nothing. If the past few weeks, and the past few years, and really the past few centuries haven't made it clear enough, to exist as a black person in the United States of America is to exist in a precarious position. We're doing our best out here to stay socially distanced and peaceful, while exercising our constitutional right to assemble, and I frankly think that that's all that we can do. If the police decide to make things violent, then that's a risk to our lives and health that we would be incurring even without COVID hanging over our heads."

"But black communities are already being hit disproportionately by the pandemic," the BBC reporter replied from off-camera. "What about the very real risk that cases could spike because of these protests? Is it really worth putting so many lives in danger?"

"As a wise man from your country once said, 'Cowards die many times before their deaths; / The valiant never taste of death but once,'" the woman grinned grimly. "Or, as a wise man from my country once said, 'If you're not ready to die for it, put the word "freedom" out of your vocabulary.' There will always be a price exacted by this kind of fight. But that doesn't mean it's not a fight well worth fighting. We'll be out here protesting, for as long as it takes. And we thank those who choose to put their own health and safety at risk, to stand beside us in our fight for equality."

"Damn it, we've got to do _something_ ," Maggie burst out, slapping her hand on the table in agitation.

Jocelyn simply squeezed Maggie's shoulder and left the room quietly as the journalist fumed.

Maggie, being herself, quickly got in touch with the organisers of the very small Black Lives Matter protest being planned for that evening in Broadchurch and asked how she could help, other than to cover the event (because she certainly didn't expect the current management of _The Echo_ to give a damn). She began calling everyone she knew immediately after.

"Fine, I'll be there," sighed Lucy Stevens, who at least had the comfort of knowing that she was unlikely to be arbitrarily arrested by the local police. "Also, did Olly send you masks? He said he was going to..."

"Got 'em, petal, thanks," grinned Maggie. Olly's new girlfriend in Liverpool apparently was an avid amateur fabric artist, and after sending his mum several cloth masks in an assortment of cheerful colours, Olly had sent twice as many to Maggie and Jocelyn. This had made the journalist cry just a little bit (her emotions were on a hair trigger these days) and had made the barrister forgive Olly just a little bit (she had always thought that Olly was far too reckless for his own good, and this ounce of common sense came as a relief).

"Of course I'll be there," replied Beth Latimer immediately, as Maggie had expected she would, because Beth Latimer was only an official canonisation away from actual sainthood.

"Might want to leave Lizzie at home," Maggie advised.

"No," Beth said calmly. "She should understand what this is all about. And in the extremely, extremely unlikely event that things get violent, she deserves to see what kind of a community she lives in."

Ellie Miller was, perhaps predictably, anxious.

"Er, so, all of the calls to abolish the police that you see on the news... is that the sort of protest this is going to be?" she asked.

"Heavens, petal, I don't think so," snorted Maggie. "Not in Broadchurch, at any rate."

"Oh, well, then, count me in! Can't guarantee I'll be able to convince many others from my station, but we'll see."

Maggie tried to envision DI Alec Hardy at a protest and, funnily enough, felt that she could. Especially if that nice daughter of his came with him. That way, the DI himself wouldn't have to admit that it was his own idea to make an appearance for a good cause.

In the midst of all of this, Sharon rang the landline.

"Is Jocelyn around? She isn't answering her mobile, and I just wanted to let her know that Jonah and I are meeting up in a few minutes to go to the protest this evening. In case we somehow end up in police custody and can't get out for longer than expected, I wanted to very quickly confirm that she knew where I was on the documents that we've been sending back and forth, which have to be filed by Monday..."

"I'll have her call you right away," Maggie promised, and she leapt up to go see why Jocelyn wasn't answering her mobile. She knocked on Jocelyn's office door (closed against the racket made by all of Maggie's phone calls) and then gently pushed it open.

"And here's Maggie!" Jocelyn said as Maggie entered. "Maggie, do you have a moment? I want you to meet someone."

Maggie took a few steps forward. The woman on Jocelyn's computer screen waved and shot Maggie a dazzling grin.

"Oh! You're the woman who was on telly this morning!" Maggie knew how stupid that sounded, but she was trying to work out how Jocelyn happened to know the former dean of a university in the United States. She leaned over Jocelyn's shoulder to be able to see better. "Lovely to meet you."

"Louise was my roommate at Oxford," Jocelyn explained, smiling at her old friend. "Some fifty-five years ago, now. I'd foolishly failed to stay in touch."

"The failure goes both ways, Jocelyn," said Louise with a kind laugh. "And really, the important thing is that you reached out now. It's so good to see your face, after all this time."

"Is everything all right?" Jocelyn asked Maggie quietly.

"Sharon's heading out to the protests in London momentarily, and she wants a word with you about Monday's deadlines, just in case anything happens," Maggie answered, loudly enough for Louise to hear, because Louise seemed more likely than anyone to forgive Jocelyn for returning a call of this nature. "She says it'll be very quick."

"I'm so sorry," Jocelyn began, but Louise shook her head.

"It's totally fine. Go make your call." She grinned. "Actually, if it's quick, I'll just stay on the line and gossip with Maggie about you, until you're back—how's that?"

Jocelyn raised her eyebrows in mock alarm, but she slipped out of her chair, and Maggie gamely took her place.

"I can't believe how wonderfully serendipitous this all is," Maggie exclaimed. "Although, Jesus, are you all right?"

"Oh, you know," sighed Louise, "hanging in there. I managed to get out of Lafayette Square before the tear gas started billowing everywhere, so I was fine. My granddaughter was arrested for allegedly violating curfew, even though the protest and arrests occurred before the curfew began, but so it goes. The charges were dropped, at least."

"God." Maggie ran a hand through her hair in frustration. "I'm so sorry."

"I stand by what I said in that interview," Louise said calmly. "It's awful, and we all wish that we didn't have to go through it, but it's what has to be done for the world to change." She considered Maggie. "Well, I think you understand."

Maggie nodded. Unlike Jocelyn, she'd dealt with the immediate fallout of friends arrested and harassed by police for choosing not to hide who they were and whom they loved. And even if there was still a ways to go on that front, society _had_ budged a stubborn inch with every protest. The realisation made Maggie unexpectedly hopeful.

"If there's anything at all that we can do to help..."

"You're a journalist, right? Keep reporting. The more people see what's happening out there, the harder it'll be to ignore. Jocelyn mentioned that you were downstairs coordinating with the local Black Lives Matter group? That's great. Covering local events will help people within your community feel engaged with what's at stake, and small as it may seem, that, too, will help change the world, bit by bit."

"We'll certainly keep trying," smiled Maggie, oddly giddy that Jocelyn's old friend understood the continuing importance of local news, even if no one else seemed to. "And thank you, for blazing the trail for the rest of us."

"You know," said Louise after a moment, "I always used to wonder what kind of woman Jocelyn would end up with, and even though I've known you for all of three minutes, I honestly can't imagine a better fit."

"Well, thanks, petal," Maggie blushed, and then added, "although I will say, I hadn't realised that Jocelyn was out at Oxford."

"Oh, she definitely wasn't," laughed Louise. "That's part of why it's so nice to see her now, finally comfortable in her own skin. We were both hiding back then, in our own ways. And now, here we are—I, a former dean of an HBCU who gets interviewed by the international news at protests for racial equality; and she, an acclaimed Queen's Counsel who by all appearances positively lights up when she sees you enter the room."

"Yeah," Maggie grinned back. "It might not surprise you completely to hear that it wasn't exactly smooth sailing all the way..."

"But she got there, in the end," said Louise graciously. "Even if it's ideal to get there sooner, the important part is getting there eventually."

Maggie nodded as Jocelyn reappeared.

"That's sorted," she sighed. "Are you two done gossiping about me?"

"Far from it," laughed Maggie, but she relinquished Jocelyn's seat with good grace.

As she made her way back downstairs, Maggie was filled with the excited rush of having just made an excellent new friend. She was certainly counting on this not being the last time she ever spoke with Louise. In fact, she was already scheming up ideas for a potential interview series with the academic, perhaps a primer to explain the current political moment, or whatever else Louise thought was important to discuss. Something to consider, at least; Maggie would have to think it over later that night. For the moment, the journalist had to finish calling everyone she knew in town about the protest, and locate those masks from Olly, and make sure that she had a fully charged mobile. And then Maggie would pull Jocelyn away from her work and off to the little local protest, to document and witness the Broadchurch community's humble efforts to change the world, bit by bit.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Needless to say, #BlackLivesMatter. Here's hoping that the change comes sooner rather than later.


End file.
